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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24188197">To build a home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CabiriaMinerva/pseuds/CabiriaMinerva'>CabiriaMinerva</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxiety, Brakebills, Discipline, Domestic Fluff, Family Feels, Friendship, Gen, Home, Panic Attacks, Season/Series 01, Stolen Moments, Well it's a mix from the books and the show, missing moment, semi-au</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:20:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,630</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24188197</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CabiriaMinerva/pseuds/CabiriaMinerva</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been six months since Quentin has (quite literally) stumbled into Brakebills. Six months of pure, magical bliss. And on the day he'll (hopefully) find out his Discipline and his place at Brakebills, Quentin thinks about all the unexpected things he has found here, realising he now has something more powerful and important than magic: a new home.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Quentin Coldwater &amp; Margo Hanson &amp; Eliot Waugh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>To build a home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/sultrybutdamaged/gifts">sultrybutdamaged</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic has been written for the Not Alone Here auction for the lovely sultrybutdamaged, who won by donating to the Self Evident Project (https://www.queercovidrelief.com/)! Thank you so much for your kindness, I hope you'll enjoy this :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>I know I said I didn't need a family to become who I was supposed to be,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>but it turned out that I did. And it was you.</em>
</p>
<p>Lev Grossman, The Magicians</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>It's been six months since Quentin has (quite literally) stumbled into Brakebills. Six months of pinching himself on the forearm to make sure he's awake, because... let's be honest, this is all too good to be true, okay?</p>
<p>He gets to spend his days studying <em>magic. </em><span>And not, like</span><em>, </em><span>card or party tricks. No, </span><em>real magic</em><span>. Something you have to learn by spending long hours bent over old, dusty books, the only sounds in the library being those of pages slowly turning or pencils moving on the paper. It's hard work, but he doesn't mind. In truth, Quentin has always loved an intellectual challenge: it's probably something that happens when you are so smart, your teachers decided to have you skip a few years and become the youngest first year who ever attended your district's High School. And learning magic isn't just any challenge, it's </span><em>the </em><span>challenge: he has to learn Arabic, Ancient Greek and at least two other dead languages, he gets to lose himself in hours (hours!) of magical mathematics or the physics of enchantments. How thrilling!</span></p>
<p>
  <span>But Brakebills isn't just a school to Quentin. It is... so much more. Since day one, he has been engulfed into Eliot and Margo's dynamics. Truth be told, he still doesn't know </span>
  <em>what</em>
  <span> they see in him. They're both brilliant on a level that isn't reachable even to someone like Quentin: Eliot is a born genius, he doesn't </span>
  <em>need</em>
  <span> to lower himself to other students' level and </span>
  <em>study</em>
  <span> (as he had once replied, in a mildly disgusted way, to Quentin, who had had the audacity to ask him «Uhm, El? Don't you ever need to, you know, study? For exams? Something?» when he had entered Quentin room at three in the afternoon with a bottle of Barbera d'Alba and two glasses). No, Eliot barely attends classes and pride himself of never reading anything more complicated than an online recipe, yet he is one of Brakebills' best student. He's a natural talent. Margo, on the other hand, does read. Fiction, mostly. But she does open some school book from time to time – usually when she needs to prove to some teacher that </span>
  <em>she</em>
  <span> was right and </span>
  <em>they </em>
  <span>were wrong. She is intimidatingly sharp.</span>
</p>
<p>And they... chose him? As a friend?</p>
<p>
  <span>This blows Quentin's mind almost as hard as the fact that </span>
  <em>magic is real</em>
  <span>. At times, even more. Part of him almost expects them to ditch him, because they have to </span>
  <em>know</em>
  <span>, by now, that he's boring, mostly useless, and an absolute mood killer at parties. Like, come on... They shine their own light, while he is... well, he's just Quentin.</span>
</p>
<p>He finishes brushing his teeth and puts away his toothbrush with a sigh.</p>
<p>Not that any of this will matter much if he fails whatever test he is supposed to pass today, right?</p>
<p>
  <span>Padding back to his room, barefoot and with a towel around his waist, Quentin can't help but feel the worry creep into his brain. Can one even fail a test to determine one's discipline? What if he does fail it? What if he gets in the classroom and he just... can't do what they ask of him? And they tell him, </span>
  <em>oh, we're sorry, there must have been a mistake, this is no place for you</em>
  <span>, and then they wipe his mind and drop his sad ass on the pavement right outside the school wards? He doesn't want to go back to the outside world, the one where he's miserable and pitiful. Here he gets to be that, from time to time, but Eliot and Margo have taken upon themselves the task to drag him out of his bad moods. Something they excel at, if he has to really be honest. But there is no Eliot and Margo in the outside world. There is just him and the grey and... and...</span>
</p>
<p>By the time he reaches the handle of his door, he is a breath away from a full panic attack and he's focusing on one of his favourite songs to try and calm don. He has barely stepped inside when a (very rude) Penny calls out, «Hey dude, what the fuck? How many times do I have to tell you to work on your wards? And what the fuck is it with you and Taylor Swift?»</p>
<p>
  <span>His harsh words bring Quentin back to the </span>
  <em>now</em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>here </em>
  <span>and, by the time Penny has walked by him, deliberately bumping him with his shoulder, his face has acquired a nice shade of pink. So what if he likes to sing Taylor Swift to calm down when he gets agitated? There's a nice rhythm to her songs, okay? </span>
</p>
<p>And truly, Penny is just an asshole. The guy lives to torture him and has been the only real downside of his first six months at Brakebills (god, he hopes they were his first six months and not his only six months. Please, please, please, let there be another six months. And then six more. And then...)</p>
<p>Counting down from twenty, Quentin tries to distract himself from the mess that now resides in his mind by thinking about positive things, things he is grateful for, just as his therapist has taught him.</p>
<p>Twenty.</p>
<p>
  <em>The blueberry muffin he ate this morning. With just the perfect amount of frosted sugar on top.</em>
</p>
<p>Nineteen.</p>
<p>
  <em>The moment when he finally managed to levitate the glass sphere.</em>
</p>
<p>Eighteen.</p>
<p>
  <em>The steamy shower he took just moments ago.</em>
</p>
<p>Nineteen.</p>
<p>
  <em>Discussing Fillory and Further with Margo, who never tells him he should grow out of it. Never snorts when he gets all flushed and frantic while explaining his theory about the timings of the Chatwins' travel to Fillory. </em>
</p>
<p>Eighteen.</p>
<p>
  <em>Eliot sprawled on the sofa, lips curled into a smirk that turns soft when his eyes land on Quentin.</em>
</p>
<p>Seventeen.</p>
<p>
  <em>A night spent in the silence of the library, books scattered on the table.</em>
</p>
<p>Sixteen.</p>
<p>
  <em>Margo and Eliot storming into said library and dragging him away, giggling and carefree.</em>
</p>
<p>Fifteen.</p>
<p>
  <em>The three of them lying under a tree in a warm afternoon, Margo running her elegant fingers through Eliot dark curls while Eliot absent-mindedly pets Quentin's hair.</em>
</p>
<p>Fourteen...</p>
<p>Quentin is now smiling, fondly. Yes, Penny is an ass, but the rest really makes up for it.</p>
<p>He is also slightly surprised to realise that almost every single positive thing that comes to his mind is related to Brakebills. Well, more specifically, to Eliot and Margo. It should feel weird, to be so attached to them. They basically just met, but to Quentin they feel...</p>
<p>He can feel himself blushing again. Gosh, he really is a bit pathetic, isn't he? They probably consider him just a temporary pastime, something they'll soon tire of.</p>
<p>Still... still, he can't help but thinking about all the times they've stormed into his room, saving him from Penny (and ugh, whatever happens at his test, at least he won't have to share a room with Penny anymore, since it's clear to everyone that he isn't a psychic). All the times Margo has nodded solemnly while listening to his rant about the movie adaptation of <em>The Hobbit</em> – and all the times she had dismantled his complaints or theories. All the times Eliot has saved him from one of his own parties, distracting him with alcohol and fun stories of his first year at <span>Brakebills.</span></p>
<p>Maybe... maybe he isn't just a pastime, after all? Would it be too bold, to believe they really consider him (maladjusted, awkward little Quentin) worth of their affection? Of their friendship? Of something that already feels more than just that?</p>
<p>As he pulls a shirt down his head, he feels somewhat guilty, and by the time he's tying his shoes he has started yet another internal monologue.</p>
<p>
  <em>I mean, I do love my family. My parents' gave me everything I could wish for. It's not... it's not their fault if my brain came out wrong.</em>
</p>
<p>No, of course it isn't. But it's not his fault he felt... not unloved. Not really. Just... alone, maybe? Not belonging to, to... to something bigger, to something <em>more</em>?</p>
<p>Nibbling on his bottom lip, Quentin leaves his room to make his way to the classroom he has been assigned to take the test. Exam. <em>Sigh.</em> Whatever the hell they're going to have him take.</p>
<p>
  <em>God. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Oh god please.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Let me pass it. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I don't want to leave.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Please, please.</em>
</p>
<p>It's the mantra Quentin repeats in his mind over and over again as he crosses the campus. Then as he pushes the door to the classroom open. Then as Sunderland starts putting magical and non-magical objects in his hands.</p>
<p>A small bonsai.</p>
<p>A glass globe.</p>
<p>Three different kinds of candles.</p>
<p>Batrachite and Flaming Pearl.</p>
<p>A page from the Book of Thoth.</p>
<p>Leaves from the Cypress of Kashmar.</p>
<p>Sand from Atlantis.</p>
<p>Nothing works.</p>
<p>As the hours go by, the mantra only gets more frantic in his head. What if they can't find out his Discipline? What if they really made a mistake? Quentin's chest suddenly feels heavier, as if someone dropped a boulder over it; it's so heavy, in fact, that it's getting harder to breathe. And Sunderland must notice his laboured breathing, because she forces him to take a break. Not long, just enough for <em>your panic attack to subside, Mr. Coldwater</em>. She observes him while he inhales slowly, deeply, just as his therapist has taught him, lips trembling as he tries to reply that he is <em>not </em>having a panic attack, thank you very much.</p>
<p>Part of him thinks back to the very first time he saw her: the name of the subject had been so lame, he was expecting an old hag to teach that class, instead he got this beautiful woman explaining to him and a bunch of other first year students... something. To be honest, he had spent that first class staring at her. Afterwards, he had felt pretty shitty for basically objectifying such a brilliant mind, reducing her to a few (very nicely built) curves. Jules would have smacked him (and rightly so). But he is barely more than a teenager, okay? And he hasn't had sex in... a while. So yeah, sorry, he had looked at her boobs. And now she is witnessing his <em>not-a-panic-attack-I-said!</em> with the same expression one would wear when watching a very sickly puppy trying to pass through his healthy brothers to reach the bowl. Nice.</p>
<p>«Maybe we should call it a day,» she mercifully suggests after a moment.</p>
<p>«No!» Quentin jumps to his feet, black dots dancing around him. Yeah, things are going really great. Fantastic, really. «Please, let me try again. I-I can't... I-I can't fail this, I...» he trails off, not really knowing how to end his sentence. If you had asked him six months ago, he would have said that now that he knew magic is real, he couldn't go back to life before magic. Couldn't forget about <em>that</em>. But now, now... «I-»</p>
<p>«Calm down, Mr. Coldwater. This is not something you can <em>fail</em>,» Sunderland huffs, the hint of a laughter in her tone. «We'll just reschedule another examination in a few months.» She waves her hand, dismissively. «It's not unheard of. Once every few years we get an unripe magician, someone who needs a little more time to fully develop his Discipline.»</p>
<p>
  <em>Did she just call me unripe?</em>
  <span> Quentin thinks, ears flushing red. Yep, here goes the last of his dignity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He opens his mouth to object, but Sunderland doesn't seem to care and cuts him short before any sound can leave his lips. «Just go to the Dean, he'll tell you what to do,» she says while massaging her temple with one hand and gesturing him towards the door with the other, «I have an appointment with a Brandy bottle and a hot bath now.» </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quentin's lips form an O and, before he can try and shake his surprise off and produce any sound, Sunderland shoos him outside, closing the door behind him with a thud. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blinking slowly, Quentin scans his surroundings. No one's there. Narrowing his eyes, he tries to evaluate the time. They spent hours trying and trying and trying again, it must be almost six o'clock. He should probably hurry, if he wants to find Dean Fogg in his office and, well, maybe still sober enough to tell him what to do with himself. It didn't take long for him to understand that it wasn't a good idea to meet him after dinner – dinner usually being a bottle of scotch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>OK. OK I can do that. I just have to go there, knock, and tell him I'm so lame, I don't even have a fucking Discipline. What could go wrong?</em>
</p>
<p>Shuffling his feet, he makes his way to the Dean's office. Maybe... maybe it won't be too bad. Maybe he'll just stay in his room while Penny moves in with the Psychics. That would leave him another six months on his own, since there won't be new students until September. Well, Brakebills' September. Yeah, that would be nice. And he would still get to attend the school and spend time with his friends.</p>
<p>With a new, feeble hope warming his chest, Quentin nervously knocks on Dean Fogg's door.</p>
<p>«Come in,» says a raucous voice behind the dark wooden door.</p>
<p>Quentin timidly lowers the handle and enters the room, eyes hidden under a curtain of hair that he promptly tries to tuck behind his ear. Unsuccessfully so.</p>
<p>Standing in the middle of the dimly lit room, Quentin takes in his surroundings: the bookshelves are full of ancient books and specks of dust twirl in the air. On the desk there's a half empty bottle of... is it whiskey? Quentin can't really tell the difference; he usually just accepts whatever Eliot puts in his hands and expresses his gratitude by making some delighted <em>mmh mmh </em>sounds.</p>
<p>«Are you here for a specific reason or do you just enjoy wasting my time, Mr. Coldwater?»</p>
<p>Fogg's voice startles Quentin, who then stutters «I-uh. I-» before taking a moment to recollect his thoughts. «Uhm, Professor Sunderland sent me here to... She couldn't, I mean, I don't...» He's so flustered, it's probably painful to watch. But the Dean barely blinks, waiting for him to just spit it out and let him go back to his drink. «We couldn't identify my Discipline, Professor Sunderland said I am to be tested again in a few months?» Quentin hates how it sounds like a question.</p>
<p>«Mph,» Dean Fogg huffs. «That's all?»</p>
<p>«I- yeah, I mean... should there be more?»</p>
<p>«I don't know, Mr. Coldwater, did you come here just to personally communicate that to me or do you actually need something?»</p>
<p>Quentin can feel his cheeks burn red. «Sun-Professor Sunderland,» he corrects himself, «sent me here to ask what I should do next.»</p>
<p>Fogg raises an eyebrow.</p>
<p>«Since everyone is moving to their assigned» Quentin has to bite down <em>House</em>. This is not Hogwarts, after all, «Discipline group.»</p>
<p>«Right.»</p>
<p>They silently stare at each other for a few moments.</p>
<p>«Right,» Fogg repeats. «Just go to the Cottage, there are never enough Physical kids to actually fill every room. Rare breed, those there.»</p>
<p>Relief floods Quentin. The Cottage. Where Eliot and Margo live. Will they be glad or will they be annoyed at the news that he'll be around even more, even when, eventually, they'll tire of him? He hopes they'll be glad, because right now his chest feels warm and fizzy.</p>
<p>«Oh,» he says, trying his best to fight the urge to curl his lips into a smile. «Okay, thank you.»</p>
<p>Fogg flaps a hand as if to say it was nothing. And it probably was, since Quentin has the feeling he just said the first thing that came to his mind. But to him, it isn't nothing. Not at all. «Mr. Coldwater.» Fogg's voice stirs him. «You can go now.»</p>
<p>«Uh, right. Thank you, Dean. And, uhm, good evening.»</p>
<p>Quentin dashes past the door, half-running down the hallway and then across the campus, beaming like a child. He might not have a Discipline yet, but this is good. Very good.</p>
<p>Halfway to the Cottage, he meets Alice Quinn. Funny girl, always sulky and intimidating. But her brain fascinates him, rousing his competitive side. Not today, though. Today Quentin doesn't care about competing. And, as it turns out, Alice is heading to the Cottage, as well. Obviously, their situation is quite different: he's just an <em>unripe</em>, unassigned student being sent off to a spare room, while she's a Physical kid in her own right. Phosphormancy, she explains as they make their way to the Cottage. Basically, she can bend light. Which is pretty cool, if you ask Quentin, and she seems satisfied as well, although maybe not as thrilled to be moved to a place where weekly parties are held.</p>
<p>Well, thank god for silencing spells and wards, right?</p>
<p>When they arrive at the Cottage, the music fills the air. They exchange a shy smile. They're the cool guys, after all, who would have thought? The only problem is:, the door is locked. Like... warded in a way that renders every attempt to open it by magic useless.</p>
<p>Luckily for them, they are quite bright, even for a place like Brakebills, which prides itself in its high standards, so it takes them only a few hours to figure out a way. When Quentin finally thinks about it, to be honest, he doesn't feel so smart. It has taken them hours, after all (but as Margo will tell them in less then ten minutes, they're the second fastest new Physical Kids to figure out how to enter the Cottage. She was the fastest, obviously), but then as the sun starts to go down, its ray filtering through the threes near the Cottage, realisation hits him and he snaps his fingers in triumph.</p>
<p>Of course, the <em>sun. </em>Phosphormancy. He feels so stupid, and Alice is almost embarrassed when he shares his realisation with her: they've talked about the many practical uses of her Discipline for almost twenty minutes, yet it took them a little more than two hours to think about it.</p>
<p>Afterwards, Alice makes quick work of the door: she raises her hand, moving her index finger and her thumb to form a circle, which works as a catalyst for the sunlight. She makes it look so easy, but her brow is peppered with drops of sweat, and Quentin suspects it must be quite difficult to bend and concentrate the light, directing it towards the door. She is a magical prodigy, but even she needs practice at time. Still, one or two attempts and a few minutes later, the door catches fire, vanishing in front of their eyes, the enchantments and the wards giving way.</p>
<p>«Phosphormancy, bitches,» Quentin mutters, then he and Alice quickly grin at each other, turning their gaze to the Cottage just in time to see Margo and Eliot appearing on the threshold, drinks in their hands.</p>
<p>«What took you so long? I'm starving,» Margo says, but she has a very smug smile on her face, a smile that turns almost soft as she takes in the two new additions to the Physical Kids.</p>
<p>Eliot hands them two glasses filled with a bright green liquid before saying «Welcome to our gracious abode.»</p>
<p>He's smiling, as well.</p>
<p>Quentin's heart swells at the genuineness of their reaction and he can't stop the smile that curves his lips when Eliot takes him by the arm, leading him inside, while Margo does the same with Alice. They both seem... thrilled to have them. Them! Him!</p>
<p>Even thought they've both already been in the Cottage before, Eliot and Margo give them the full tour of the ground floor, laughing and joking all the way through, before settling in the kitchen, where Eliot starts cooking (Quentin is useless in the kitchen, so he just nods when Eliot explains that he's making Tapenade, Salade Niçoise and Artichauts à la Barigoule... which to Quentin sound like a lot of difficult words to describe olive spread, salad and fried vegetables, but there's no way he's telling Eliot <em>that</em>).</p>
<p>It all feels so cozy that Quentin relaxes into his chair, sipping whatever Eliot puts in his glass and smiling fondly while Eliot and Margo's chatter fills the space around him, warming its way into his chest, settling in that small, hidden place where he keeps all of his most treasured memories.</p>
<p>This. This is what makes Brakebills so special, what he was so afraid to lose. And now not only he knows he wont lose it, but he also gets to <em>live here, </em>to be<em> part of it. To belong. </em></p>
<p>It's almost to good to be true, but then Eliot hand lands on his shoulder, demanding his undivided attention as he explains in detail why artichokes require white wine, something with very little tannin (and of course, Quentin doesn't even know what that is, but he nods anyway), and that they'll drink a delicate Lugana DOC he came across last time he went to Italy (because <em>of course</em> Eliot went to Italy), and Margo interrupts him to discuss with Quentin how they should plan their Lord of the Rings movie marathon. And then they end up bickering about who gets the biggest artichoke, which makes Quentin laugh (and even Alice, who has been dragged with them almost against her will, is smiling). It hits him, right there and then, that this is it. It's real.</p>
<p>This feels like... no, this <em>is</em> home. It's family.</p>
<p>His family.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading, I hope you've enjoyed this!<br/>I won't lie: comments and feedbacks are very much welcome! But in case you just want to say hi, chat or whatever, look me up on tumblr or twitter (cabiriaminerva) :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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